#i am yelling and hooting and hollering

[menlove]

when u go down an insane research rabbit hole and you just have to sit there Knowing Things now. insane how the mind works.

[unorcadox]

do u have a favorite sports team? (any sport)

not a sports person but my parents really like the buffalo bills so any other team really

[decembermoonskz]

welcome to another episode of I hate my neighbors 🫠

[sillimancer]

2024 us political landscape as someone on the lefter end of the spectrum feels kinda like the end of that one spongebob episode where he finally starts doing fry cook shit after pissing everyone off trying to act and sing and everyone's cheering for him as he gradually figures out people don't want him to act and sing they want him to make their fucking krabby patties

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[obsolescent]

You’re gonna hate seeing my name every time you open this app from how much I do and will resquest you 😭

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGJG8npPb/

Here me out. This but^

Single mother y/n with a kid and ghost just came back from a mission and needed to buy something for his small house and sees y/n struggling to pick some heavy things up while her kid keeps laughing and saying everything like the girl in the video. i have so many other requests I’d love to because you’re writing is probably my favorite /srs. hope you have a nice end of the month. Love ya 🩷

The Necessity of Saints

Part Two (NSFW)

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x SingleMom!Reader

Author's Notes: Ough, I had fun writing this out. Love these prompts so much, you don't understand! I will never tire of requests I promise, they fill me with so much motivation and I'm so happy I'm one of your favorites, that means so much to me!! I hope you enjoy this and hope you’re having the best month!! I am not opposed to writing a spicier second part to this, just let me know ♡ Once again I am thinking about Simon showing off his muscles and being happy to help someone in need.

Content warnings: Feminine reader, reader uses she/her pronouns and uses mom, your daughter is named Rhea.

“Good Lord, why does wood have to be so HEAVY,” you grunt out, trying unsuccessfully to pull the wooden beam out of the pile. Your kid stands off to the side, stifling her giggles with her hand, finding much enjoyment in your predicament. You stand up and stretch your limbs, getting ready for another go at it. You take a deep breath, bending with your knees, and begin pulling again, with more force behind it. 

Sweating dripping off your brow, you continue to tug at the piece of wood, pleading with it to just MOVE. “Can someone help my mama?” Your kid finally yells out, causing you to whirl towards her with a panicked look on your face. “Rhea!” You hiss, seeing your phone in her hands, recording your ordeal. “Please, someone, my mama won’t ask for help and she needs it!” Rhea exclaims, drawing out the end of ‘please’. 

“Stop filming me struggling, dammit!” You try to contain your own laughter, hurrying back to continue pulling, hoping to finally get it to move before anyone hears your daughter’s yelling, not wanting an encounter with a random stranger. Rhea continues to hoot and holler, hoping to garner attention to you both. Your face now red from a mixture of stifled laughter, exertion, and embarrassment.

“What’s all this, then?” A gravelly voice booms out, halting yours and your daughter's movements. You both turn towards the voice, finding a large, tall man, standing off to the side, hands on his hips. His brown eyes glitter with what looks to be amusement, probably been watching quietly for a while. Your ears burn, straightening up and wiping your hands off on your shirt. 

“I’m so sorry to bother your shopping, please ignore my–” “My mama won’t ask for help and she needs it! Please help her!” Your daughter cuts you off. You put your hands over your face, groaning. “Is that all?” He asks, raising a blond eyebrow at your kid. She nods, finally putting the phone down after succeeding in her mission. 

“Alright then, let’s have at it,” British accent now noticeable after the initial shock, he walks over to the wood you’re standing in front of, easily lifting a beam into his arms. “How many?” He asks, looking towards you. You stand there in shock, at how easily he was able to lift it, to his bulging muscles now able to be seen through his shirt. 

“J-just that one, sir. I need it cut into three 6-inch pieces, though,” You stutter out, realizing your gaze had been on him for too long. That glint in his eyes doesn’t go away, you assume he noticed the staring. “To the wood-cutting area, then?” He turns, walking off in the direction of the wood-cutting services. You and your daughter share a look before scurrying after him.

Once you arrive, you tell the associate what you want, and they begin the process. The three of you stand off to the side while they cut, looking over at the man, you begin speaking. “I really appreciate what you did for us, thank you…?” “Simon,” He offers his name, you giving your own and your daughter’s. “Thank you, Simon. Is there anything I can do to repay you for helping?” You ask, reaching for your bag. “Don’t worry about it,” He grunts out, walking forward to grab the pieces they’ve finished with, loading them onto a cart. 

Once they’re done, he wheels the cart towards the checkout, paying for the wood. “Oh! Sir, you don’t have to–""Don’t worry about it, love,” He says again, adding ‘love’ to the end of this one, causing your cheeks to redden. Once the transaction is complete, he pulls the cart outside. “The car park is pretty big, you can pull your car up to the entrance, I’ll load it.” He says, You nod, you and Rhea walk quickly to your car, getting inside and buckling in. 

You pull your car around to the front of the store, opening the trunk. He begins loading the wood inside, making quick work of the now smaller pieces. Once done, he comes around to your side of the car. You roll your window down, going to thank him again, when he holds his hand up. “Could’ve hurt yourself. Just ask for help next time, yeah? Don’t have to do everything alone,” He says, causing your mouth to fall open, like he read your mind. “But, if you’re privy to certain help, you can always give me a ring,” He hands over a card with a number on it, with his full name, ‘Simon Riley’.

“Thank you, Simon. I’ll be sure to let you know,” You say, bashfully. He smirks, “Have a lovely day, you two,” He says, before walking back inside the store. You roll your window up, pulling away from the entrance. You’re driving for a bit, both silent, before Rhea finally speaks up, “He was really cute, and nice. You should text him.” You sputter. “Rhea! I have no idea who he even is–""Get to know him! He was, like, totally checking you out, and so were you,” She says, looking over at your blushing face. “I don’t know…” You trail off. You hadn’t done much dating in a very long time. Not having much time for it between your daughter and work. Now that Rhea is a teenager, maybe you could have some time to find a relationship?

Seemingly reading your mind (ya’ll gotta stop doing that), she adds, “I’m old enough to watch myself, go have some fun!” You roll your eyes, a smile forming on your face. Maybe he wouldn’t be against seeing you under different circumstances?

Arriving home and maneuvering the now much easier to handle wooden pieces, you set them in a pile inside the garage, for your upcoming project. Once inside and settled in, you pull out the card and contemplate what you’ll say. You add his number to your contacts and pull up a message screen for him. You let him know it’s you and add,

‘I would really like to get to know you more, if you’re not opposed?’

A few minutes later, he responds.

‘Not at all opposed, love. Just let me know what time is best for you x’

[weebsinstash]

Do you think Nolan or Thragg would ever be a GirlDad (TM)? Like, I can imagine Nolan finding out his wife is pregnant with a girl, and he thinks he's going to treat her the same as Mark, but then he holds her in his arms for the 1st time and all of a sudden she's Daddy's Little Princess and he's teaching her how to subjugate her enemies during her "princess tea parties" and they're both wearing tiaras cuz "Please daddy?" with puppy dog eyes.

Hooting hollering howling and slapping my knee because I never finished the goddamn post but if you take a gander over here in my drafts

SAME BRAINCELL WOO WOO

That gif is his response to you asking when you get to date lmaooo

I almost wrote like something short for it, and I kind of am constantly bouncing around between "Do I want this to be short or long or what" but I can just imagine daughter Reader and Nolan going at it "you just don't want me to date because you want me to save myself for a VILTRUMITE man, don't you?! Humans aren't good enough, huh?! I'm 'too good for a human man'?!" And he just loses it and shouts back "you're too good for ANY man, you don't NEED any man, I'M the only man you need, I'M your FATHER!!" Like. Nolan is one of those super dare I use the term emotionally incestuous yandere dads

Like. Ok I guess this is a throwaway spoiler because I would be absolutely fucking shocked if they bothered to animate this, it's such a small deal, but like. Idk. Idk. How do I phrase this. "There's another character in the series who also has to deal with their daughter wanting to have A Ho Phase and Daddy Doesn't Like It" and for the love of fucking god Nolan and Thragg wouldn't let you date for absolute shit. No dating, no fucking, you are, their pure innocent sweet but also savage little fierce warrior princess and you are untouched by no man like the goddess Artemis to them.

God. Having a yelling screaming argument where you're just so upset, "OH YEAH WELL YOU KNOW YOUR CHANCELLORS SON, THE ONE I MET THE OTHER WEEK? YEAH, YEAH, I FUCKED HIM, I FUCKED HIM IN MY BED, IN THE HOUSE YOU PROVIDE FOR ME, HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, DADDY" and that's like OH MY GOD you've cut them so deep it's like actual fucking sacrilege to them. The EMOTIONAL DAMAGE. Fists are nothing knives are nothing bombs are nothing BUT HEARING THAT THEIR BABY GIRL GOT DEFLOWERED? It's like a fucking DEBUFF. Imagine you scream at Nolan about how you sucked off a Viltrumite HIS AGE and he just PHYSICALLY STUMBLES, HAS TO REGAIN HIS BALANCE, HAND OVER HIS HEART

And Thragg is, obsessively hollering about how you're the Grand Regents daughter and you're of too high status for any of these males, just screaming at you, "WHY DID I CATCH THAT MAN'S TONGUE IN YOUR MOUTH? HE IS BENEATH YOU" and you hit him with "YEAH HE WAS BENEATH ME, AND BEHIND ME, AND ON TOP OF ME--" and Thragg gets so fucking RED, I feel like he's one of those wall punching dads. He won't ever hit you but he might manhandle-grab you and physically intimidate you at times. Thragg can just give you The Look and you INSTANTLY know you're in for a punishment, or that he's absolutely furious, and you're on your knees, "Please Daddy I'm sorry I didn't mean it, I was angry, please don't be upset with me, i-i-i just dont like you being disappointed in me, i love you and i want us to get along 🥺" and like. Obviously it works. But. He's not mad at YOU, he's mad at THE GUY, so, as cute and effective as buttering him up or even just genuinely being afraid and pleading earnestly is, you're not his target. The guy's still getting, tortured and maimed or something. But thanks for telling Father you love him, that'll perk him up during his next planet raid ❤️

BUT NO LITERALLY ACTUALLY Nolan with his knees bent in a little tiny plastic chair nearly on the ground with his little fake cup of tea as he sits there having "tea" with you and your Princess Ladybug doll and he's all, "now sweetheart, what did we learn today?" "That if we defeat our enemies, we should also take out their family and their allies, so they don't come back for vengeance?" "Yes sweetie, that's so good, you're so smart 🥰"

Nolan/Thragg getting in a physical fight and they could be getting maimed and disembowled or taking punches and it's like whatever, they're still chilling, but, do some shit like, knock their treasured keychain out of their pocket that you gave them or an embroidered handkerchief or just a little personal photo of you they keep on them gets ruined in the scuffle, oh, oh, NOW they're fucking pissed, NOW they've got some serious unfinished business in this fight and their opponents get DEMOLISHED and they're sitting there pouting with their broken/ruined thing you gave them because even if they got a new one from you, this one still had memories and sentimental value

I feel like similar to parents keeping baby teeth, Thragg would keep things like, first weapon you ever trained with, memorial photo of your first spar with another child that you won, your first flightsuit, a toddlers toy that was crushed on accident because you suddenly got your powers and had far too much strength than you knew what to do with. And Nolan, if he's raising you on Earth with Debbie, he's at all your school functions, whether it's dancing or sports, and if you aren't in those things, he encourages you HEAVILY (it totally isn't. Training or anything or making sure you're staying fit and active for anything in the future hahaha). He's taking photos and cheering in the crowds. He wants your art in his office. He wants to play games with you once you get your powers. He buys a case for any medals and trophies to proudly display.

Also like do you have any idea how much of an actual phenomenon it is, I've seen videos of it, where dads basically have infinitely more sympathy for their new daughters when they already have sons. I distinctly remember a video where a man was holding his second-born, his first daughter, and he was like weeping because he was feeling intense empathy for his infant daughter because she was crying and looking at him as he held her, and the wife was filming and it was captioned "he never did this with our son" and like. LMAO, THAT'S NOLAN WITH YOU WHEN YOU CRY. THAT'S THRAGG SUDDENLY GIVING A FUCK ABOUT ONLY YOU SPECIFICALLY AFTER LIKE TONS OF KIDS.

Daughter Reader would definitely be their spoiled little princess but you're also their spoiled little princess under very specific terms of CONTAINMENT AND SURVEILLANCE. You've got curfews, they need to know who your friends are, what families do they come from, what do their parents do. They'll treat you like a princess but they'll also socially isolate you from others and. Basically control your life. And if you ever try and pull away from Dear Old Dad, well. Viltrumites can have some pretty extreme reactions. Will Nolan have to disfigure that boy you won't stop talking to? Will Thragg have to build a pretty little cell so that his adult daughter doesn't sneak out to drink and fuck unknown men? That's up to how much of an obedient faithful daughter you want to be. Don't make them do something only you will regret ❤️

Jfjfkfm EDIT; I ALSO TOTALLY MISSES YOU SENT THIS

No but absolutely you're sitting there in your little costume jewelry as you twist a barbie doll and wring her like a towel "for disobeying High Queen Princess Barbie" and here's Thragg, "that's very good. The chain of command should always be respected" and you just happily start chattering away in that "im a small child and I don't know how to keep secrets or lie" kind of way

"Then Teddy Mason from down the street chased me into the woods and I kept telling him to stop but he kept using a stick to pull up my skirt so I grabbed him by the leg and threw him up into the air so he went SPLAT when he came back down!!" And you bang your little hand down on your table and Thragg is nodding in approval and Nolan just comes in looking mortified because he has no idea why Thragg is there until he. Sees that you're putting all kinds of stupid plastic hair clips in the man's hair and even his mustache and giggling and putting stickers on him And Thragg Is Just Totally Letting It Happen. Just totally casual, "Ah Nolan, you're finally here" and stands up to talk to Nolan with you in his arms or on his shoulder or just, hovering around him continuing to play with all the hair clips while your very horrified father is wondering what alternate dimension he just stumbled into to see the Grand Regent so. Calm.

The two men go into the other room "to have a grownup talk" and are they talking about the invasion? About Viltrum? No, Thragg is demanding to see all your baby photos as Nolan starts pulling out all his photo albums with absolute glee

[hangesslut]

Captain and his Soldier

Levi Ackerman x Reader

It’s another freezing day in the Scout’s barracks. It’s been snowing for what feels like 10 years. Due to the heavy snow, we have the day off. I’m grateful because there is NO way I would have survived out in that cold. I slide on my plain clothes and a jumper that Reiner lent me. It’s huge and cozy, it smells like him too. As soon as I’m about to open the main door it comes flying open. “Y/N! Breakfast is almost over, where have you been?!”

Ah, Sasha… the most food motivated individual I think I’ve ever met.

I laugh, “I was just getting dressed, I’m coming don’t worry.”

She smiles at me warmly, “Well then, come on! I’m getting seconds!” She whispers that last part out and I shake my head. We make it down to the dining hall and I see all of my friends sitting and chatting with each other. “Y/N!” My eyes travel the crowd until I see Eren waving at me from across the room. He’s standing next to no other than Captain Levi. “What on earth could he be doing with him?” I think to myself. I start to wave back when I see he’s actually calling me over. I send a glance back to Sasha and she jus shrugs. I sigh and head over to the two men. Well, one man and one boy. I make my way up to them and salute. “Captain Levi, sir.” He nods at me and waves a hand. “It’s okay Y/N, you can relax” Eren looks at me wide-eyed as he says this.

I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. I drop my salute and stand there somewhat awkwardly. “So, Y/N is it? Titan boy here tells me you’re one of the best soldiers here.” I glance up at Levi, dragging my eyes from the floor.

“I-uh, that’s kind of him to say, sir.” He tilts his head back lightly, I can feel my body tense. “Well, are you? Are you one of the best soldiers here, Y/N?”

I’m pretty sure at this point I’ve physically stopped breathing. I gulp. “I do believe that I am somewhat more advanced than some others here, sir.”

He laughs. He actually laughs! “Is that so? I’d definitely like to see for myself.”

He has a half smirk on his face as he stares me down. I look over at Eren who has the audacity to have an encouraging look on his face. That little shit.

“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to, well, to…” I trail off, unable to come up with an excuse. Levi nods and steps closer to me.

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s up to me and me only to decide was appropriate and what isn’t, Y/N.” My breath hitches and I stare into his eyes. My body is incredibly stiff. “Y-yes sir!”

I let out a breath as he backs up against the wall once again. “You’re excused, soldier.” I salute him again and then run off back towards my table, Eren following me close behind.

“What the fuck, Eren?!” He jumps back slightly alarmed by me yelling.

“What?! Captain Levi was asking who I thought were the two best soldiers and I told him you and Mikasa!” I groan and slam my head onto the table.

“Now he wants me to ‘prove myself’ or something!” I pick my head up and look in the direction of where Levi was. He’s sitting at a table, a little closer and smirking at me. I hurry and send my eyes to the table. I hear Reiner laugh as he plops down next to me.

“Oh Y/N, you aren’t scared of little tiny Captain Levi, are you?” I roll my eyes and lightly push him as he throws his arm around my shoulder.

“No I’m not scared, Reiner! I’m just… he’s a little intimidating sometimes.” He laughs again.

“I think he just likes you. Probably got a little crush on our Y/N.” He pinched my cheek and winks at me.

I shrug, “I doubt that very much. He’s probably just picking on me like he does everyone else.”

Reiner smirks. “Wanna test that theory?” I turn to face him about to question what he meant when his lips slam onto mine. My eyes shoot wide open as he wraps his hand up into my hair and pulls me closer. My body starts to relax and I kiss him back. A couple people at the table hoot and holler, someone else whistles. This is…crazy. He pulls back slightly, my eyes flutter open and look into his.

“I-Reiner…” my words fail and he smiles lightly.

“Look at Levi, Y/N.” He whispers in my ear and I slowly drift my eyes over to the Captain. He looks, well, he looks pissed. Reiner fully pulls away and I catch Levi’s eyes. He quickly stands up, practically running towards our table. I feel two hands grab tightly onto my shoulders and haul me up and out of the seat.

“Captain, sir! What are you-“ Levi cuts me off.

“Shut up, brat. We’re going for a walk.” He drags me out of the dining hall and continues on until we reach an empty hallway. I’ve never been here before,

“Where are we?” My question falls on deaf ears and he pushes me gently against the wall.

“Y/N… a-are you with Reiner?” His body is touching mine, but his eyes are on the floor.

I take a deep breath in and sigh quietly.

“No, Levi. I’m not with Reiner…” I try to get his eyes to look at me. When he finally does he looks like he might cry. “Then why was he kissing you?”

I slowly reach up and place my hand on his face. He flinched and then relaxes into my touch.

“I-Levi, he said that you might have a crush on me and wanted to ‘prove it’ so he kissed me to see your reaction.” He scrunched his eyebrows up and then relaxes them, nodding.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did… I just, I’ve watched you for awhile. During training and out on expeditions. I know I don’t know you personally, but I think I’ve fallen for you.” My eyes are wide and widen at each word. Levi. Captain Levi. The Commanders right hand man. Humanity’s Strongest. He likes me. Levi likes me. “Y/N, please say something…” I snap out of my trance, hearing his voice again.

“I-I might like you too?” It comes out as a question rather than a statement. He smiles down at me and pulls me into his arms. I stand there for a moment, not sure what to do. “Please Y/N, hug me back.” I wrap my arms around his neck, resting them on his shoulders. He takes a deep breath and slowly breathes it out, the warm air fanning over my neck. I slowly melt into his touch. Relaxing entirely, allowing myself to just be held. He pulls back and looks into my eyes.

Stepping back he smiles and grabs my hand. “Y/N, would you like to go on a date with me?”

I smile back, wider and squeeze his hand.

“Levi, I would love to.” He pulls me in for another hug. Pulling away he kisses my forehead, “I think you should go finish your dinner.” I laugh at his comment while trying to conceal my blushing face. “I probably should… I’ll see you later, Captain.” He smiles down at me and pushes off the wall, “See you later, Soldier.” Walking back to the dining hall, all I can think about is what the hell I’m going to tell my friends.

[cutekittenlady]

Planes, Trains, and Autobots

Summary Fic Part 11

(why yes I am continuing this in spite of season 2 dropping. its a summary fic. Plus fanfic inherently ignores canon sooooo. Consider it an alternate events au if you want. Besides I cant even watch season 2 right now.)

[Previous] [Next]

Back at the Maltos, Wheeljack has joined the group and has hooked up his experimental ground bridge outside the barn and is FINALLY ready to commence with the test. Ratchet made him re-rig the whole thing three seperate. First time because he caught him rigging it up in the dugout, second because the exit would hit the barn, and third because the exist would hit the house.

Wheeljack complains that things would probably just "work out" but Ratchet argues that he doesnt want to have to rebuild the Maltos house before everyone gets back. The terrans and kids immediately agree. Outvoted Wheeljack dejectedly turns back to his experimental ground bridge.

Wheeljack wonders where to aim the test run at. He speculates various locations before Ratchet tells him to just aim for somewhere within eyesight so a) they can make sure it works, b) he can apply emergency aid if or when it doesnt, and c) so they dont have to drag wheeljacks body very far if things REALLY go wrong.

Whelljack tells him theres NOTHING to worry about. He is something, like, 87.4% sure this will work.

In response Ratchet tells the kids to take cover in the dugout.

Wheeljack gives a "haha very funny" before starting the machine.

The ground bridge does nothing for few uncomfortable minutes, but just as Ratchet is about to say something it spurts to life.

Wheeljack gives a hoot of success and gives Ratchet a smug look.

Ratchet just responds that he, wheeljack, hasn't gone through the portal yet.

Ratchet goes over to the controls, puts in some nearby coordinates, and tells Wheeljack to brace himself.

Wheeljack asks where Ratchet is sending him, and Ratchet says its in a clearing within eyesight.

Wheeljak turns towards the portal. Then he turns back and asks Ratchet if hes sure the coordinates are right.

Ratchet rolls his eyes and double checks and confirms that, yes, they are correct.

Wheeljack nods and turns back to the portal. He then turns back again, and asks if the portal is fully charged.

Ratchet groan and says, yes, yes it is.

Wheeljack laughs uncomfortable and turns back towards the portal. He then turns back yet again and asks if they should maybe try throwing a very large rock or something through the portal first and-

Ratchet yells for him to stop stalling. If hes confident in his tech it should be perfectly safe. If hes not, then he'll just call Optimus and others and tell them they'll have to take the LONG way back with their prisoner.

Wheeljack clears his throat and steps through the portal.

Ratchet turns his attention back to the controls, making sure all the readouts are correct. He mutters to himself that he KNOWS Wheeljack could do this. Then, remembering hes talking about WHEELJACK, quietly prays the ground bridge doesnt explode.

A few seconds later a portal opens not too far away and wheeljack steps out.

Once hes out of the protal it quickly closes behind him.

Wheeljack stands stunned for a moment before looking himself over and checking for any missing pieces. After another moment he immediately starts whooping and hollering of how the tech works! It works!

The kids watch on and start celebrating too.

Back at the groundbridge controls, Ratchet gives a sigh of relief before shutting the machine down. He mutters a congratulations for Wheeljack.

Robbie, who is standing nearby, asks Ratchet to repeat what he said.

Ratchet raises his voice and says that he was saying hes happy he doesnt have to waste his time scrapping Wheeljack off the floor.

Robbie smiles at him making it clear that he knows exactly what he actually said making Ratchet blush.

---

We cut back over to New Jersey where Optimus is just finishing his call with Ratchet confirming that they've gotten the ground bridge working. Megatron asks doubtfully if hes really certain that its working. Optimus confirms that Ratchet had Wheeljack test it to make sure.

Megatron still expresses doubts, wondering if perhaps Ratchet would have exaggerated its effetiveness.

Optimus tells him that while Ratchet might have a bad sense of humor about Megatrons history, he wouldn't risk the whole mission just to mess with Megatron. Besides which, while Wheeljacks inventions do have a... history he wouldn't approve the use of the groundbridge for others unless he was certain it would safely work.

Dorothy says that they can all go together only for Optimus to awkwardly correct her. The ground bridge is weaker than the ones they used during the war. It likely won't be big enough for them all to go at once.

Megatron asks if Optimus feels confident escorting Dead End on his own. Optimus hesitantly confirms and asks why he asks. Megatron says that he might as well get back "the old fashioned way". WIthout having to follow Optimus on the road, flying back to Witwicky should take no time at all. Around an hour or so at most.

Optimus tells him he doesnt have to do that. He knows Ratchet put his back out but-

Megatron cuts him off and tells him that thats not it. If what deadend told them was true and he truly hasn't seen the other stunticons since the war then they are likely going to have to track and find them all. its been months since Motormaster escaped from prison and Ghost fell. He, Dragstrip, and Wildrider could be anywhere.

They need to preserve the groundbridges energy if they want to gurantee they'll be able to get to the location of a sighting or lead ASAP. That means minimizing the number of trips and avoiding overusing the groundbridge for short trips. It shouldn't be used for any trip they can completely in the alt modes in just an hour.

Optimus is hesitant telling Megatron that splitting up isn't a good habit to get into. After all what happens if, once they're through the portal, Deadend tries to escape?

Megatron questions if he thinks thats likely. Besides which, Ratchet and Wheeljack are on the other side and Elita-one and Arcee are also stationed in Witwicky so its not like they don't have backup. he also says that he doesnt think Deadend is likely to try and escape again. Its hard to get him motivated again after he stops.

Optimus still doesnt agree but can see Megatron has made his decision. Dorothy decides to go with Optimus since they'll be arriving at her house and she wants to make sure deadend doesnt cause problems at her house. Twitch decides to go with Megatron to keep him company on the way back.

Megatron warns her that he intends to go full speed on the way back. This disheartens Twitch who acknowledges that her drone form likely won't be able to keep up at that speed and says she'll likely just go back with Dorothy and Optimus.

After a moment of hesitations, Megatron tells her she can ride along with him if she'd like. Twitch happily accepts and Dorothy gives Megatron a knowing look.

Megatron quicly asks twitch to "just please dont touch anything" and twitch promises.

Dorothy tells them to enjoy their flight and climbs into Optimus' truck form.

Optimus contacts Ratchet the start up the groundbridge. A portal opens up nearby and with one big honk of a horn for a goodbye Optimus drives through. The portal closing behind them.

---

In the abandoned car factory a screen flashes an alert causing knockout to tap the screen irritably. He mutters about interference before digging through the data.

Motormaster asks what the hell is going on with the equipment.

Knock Out at first says that it must be interference before looking closer and cursing.

Motormaster demands to know what the problem is.

Knock Out groans and tells him hes not allowed to get mad at him.

Motormaster says he'll get mad all he wants.

Knock Out rolls his eyes and tells him he's picking up a bridging signal. Motormaster is shocked and knockout continues saying that since he built this sensor with stolen ghost tech it must still be connected with the Autobots signals. Which means that the autobots must have managed to rebuild some form of bridging tech.

Motormaster asks if they'll be able to pick up on the bridging tech Knockout has been working on.

Knockout gives an unconvincing shrug.

After some more shouting from Motormaster, Knockout bites back that hes a medical doctor NOT an engineer. The fact that hes been able to rig up as much tech as he has using a mix of stolen cybertronian and earth tech is, quite frankly, evidence that he, knock out, is an unappreciated genius. One that should NOT have to put up with Motormasters attitude.

The big combiner grabs and lifts Knock Out up by the arm. Knock Out protests but Motormaster ignores him. He demands to know if the autobots can use the same method to find them.

Knock Out tells him that they probably cant. Not only has he not actually tested his own attempt at groundbridging, but the groundbridge signal is only detectable when it is activated and something is moving through it. The more things moving through the portal the stronger the energy output. Plus his own mechanism is pretty... weak.

Motormaster asks HOW weak it is.

Knock Out says before he answers that question he wants to be let down.

Motromaster unwillingly does so and Knock Out brushes himself off muttering threateningly about what he'll do if the other bot had scuffed his finish. He'd JUST waxed it.

Motormaster growls at Knockout and Knockout picks up something like a staff or spear from a pile of crates. Knockout explains that he rigged the smaller mechanism to his old energon prod for easy use and so that they can pick up and move it on the go. Besides which they can actually carry it through the subsequent portal with them and use it to get back. None of that waiting for someone on the other end to open it up.

The rather critical and numerous downsides include them having to manually enter the coordinates every. single. time. And no chance for subtle variation which runs the risk of them transporting themselves into a room two times too small for them, or a place that was clear of rubble when they left but somehow has a pile of rocks when they try and get back. And if the coordinates are even a little off, theres a possibility of doing something like sending themselves a thousand feet into the air or deep into the planets crust. Knock Out doesnt know what a thousand feet of rocky pressure would do to his frame but he doesnt want to find out.

Beyond that theres the not so minor issue that the thing guzzles energon like no ones business so its not even like they can use all that frequently.

Aaaaand of course it has a limited transport capacity. They can do two average to smaller sized bots. Three assuming someone is willing to risk potentially losing a limb. He could potentially make it bigger assuming they're willing to burn through ALL of their energon reserves to make it happen, but that would also make it insanely unstable.

Knockout admits he doesnt know a lot about how bridge science actually works. He largely just repurposed and repaired what was already there. If anything goes wrong mid transport hes not going have any idea of how to fix it.

Because of ALL of that, theres a chance the energy the portal gives out wont be big enough for the autobots to pick up. Maybe. Probably.

Though if they're not careful they MAY be able to find one of their severed arms somewhere. Probably Motormasters, yknow, considering (here Knockout gestures to motormasters considerable bulk).

Motormaster actually seems thoughtful for a moment.

Knockout looks pleased with himself until Motormaster tells him that, in that case, that means Knockout will have to be the one to retrieve the stunticons. Alone.

Knockout freaks out a little. He points out that most of the stunticons are "crazy" and would rip him limb from limb. Motormaster tells him to shut up and just tell them that Motormaster sent him and that that ought to straighten things out. After a moment of hesitation Knockout unwillingly agrees.

He then tells Motormaster that since THATS sorted out he hopes he won't be upset about the other thing.

Motormaster asks what he means by the OTHER thing.

Knockout taps the screen again and says that, unless the equipment is very off the mark... the autobot transport signal they just picked up was right where deadend was supposed to be.

Motormaster proceeds to lose it.

[spyderlondon]

RACE ME!

A/N: Just something silly with both of our OCs and just a surprise for Scarlet in general.

Raceway AU @thescarletnargacuga @theamazingdigitalraceway

OCs: Scarlet's dragonsona and my canine sona

-----

"RACE ME, DANGIT!" Noa shouted up at the black and red dragon that was currently hanging on a battlement of the wall surrounding a decent sized castle that the dragon was able to coerce Caine into making for her somehow. No one ever really questioned it since she was the former champion of the raceway until she was basically forced to retire by the announcer desperately needing some other racer to win besides just her. No one really bothered her at the castle...

...except the canine that was currently below her. She was often found aggravating the retired racer whenever the current racers were given a day off to rest- something the brown dog was bad at.

Usually, Scarlet was able to get Noa to leave her alone by blowing a fireball in her direction and burning a bit of her dark red track suit along with some of her back fur. It didn't necessarily scare the dog but it did cause her to yelp and flee so she could extinguish the flames as well as get some aloe vera on it by Ragatha... as well as a scolding from the rag doll.

This time, however, "...fine." The dragon finally caved after so many desperate attempts from the younger woman to get her to listen to her, "If it'll get you to FINALLY stop coming over here and yelling at me." She rubbed her temples with her yellow claws gently.

The canine's eyes brightened up in excitement and she jumped up, cheering, "REALLY?! YES!!" She hooted and hollered happily. At least until a small fireball barely missed her, making her squeak in surprise, "A-Ack! Right! Calming down... Sorry." She smiled sheepishly at the dragon.

Scarlet leaned against one her hands, "You better work with Caine and Pomni on making a racetrack for me though- I refuse to race on that boring practice track." She snorted, some black smoke forcing its way out of her nostrils, "I need something exciting and harder than what you racers have been doing so far- it'd be too easy for me on those tracks."

"R-right! I'll get right on that!" Noa smiled eagerly before running off to find the AI announcer and his girlfriend with a bit of a skip in her step.

The dragon watched her go with a scoff, "She's not even a good racer- how does she have the guts to race me?" She shook her head before going back to what she was doing earlier.

---

"Pomni!" Noa called out to the jester racer as she got near her, "Could you get Caine for me? I can't find-" She paused as Pomni slowly turned around in a flustered state as she held the announcer's shoulders and he her waist.

All three of them stared at each other for a few moments before the the canine simply held out a foot and turned a full one-eighty and began to walk away like she saw nothing. She only made it a few feet before she was pounced on by the jester, "YOU ARE A TATTLETAIL SO GET YOU BUTT BACK OVER HERE!" The younger woman tackled her in her embarrassment.

"Woah, [%^**]!" Noa fell with a grunt, "I wasn't going to tell anyone!" She tried to defend herself, pretty weakly since it was true- she kind've sucked at keeping juicy things like this to herself. She felt both of the racer and AI's eyes staring holes into the back of her head which made her go silent for a few moments, ".......okay, maybe I am a bit of a tattletail." She admitted sheepishly, "Gotta admit y'all are cute together though-" She tried to save herself by complimenting the couple.

Caine rolled his eyes as he grabbed Pomni and had her hover in the air with him, "Sorry about her, mutt." He shook his head, using the nickname as an friendly way of teasing the canine racer, "She gets overly embarrassed when we're caught being affectionate." He explained as he watched the jester pout and cross her arms, "You know she means no harm.... outside of the races."

Noa could see the little bit of a scowl on the younger woman's face and chuckled a bit nervously, tugging on my track suit a little, "......I'm going to be hit with so many items-"

"You're getting distracted." A voice called from above and the three on the ground were suddenly cast in a medium sized shadow of a draconian creature, "And here I thought you were excited to race me?" She landed on the ground in between Caine and Noa.

The AI tilted his head at the dragon, "I thought you were retired from racing, Scarlet?" He blinked, "You usually just stick to helping me get ideas for track designs or monster obstacles."

She scoffed, "I am retired but this idiot over here-" She pointed a claw at the canine, "-keeps demanding I race her so I finally gave in." She shook her head before handing a track design to Caine, "And because I knew she'd get distracted, I decided to figure out a design instead. Mind building it for a one-on-one race?" She asked flatly.

The pair of dentures chuckled at how clearly Noa was trying to befriend Scarlet in the only way she knew how- racing- it was kind've nice especially with how shy she normally was. He nodded, "Alright- I'll get right on that."

The dragon nodded before flying upwards again, "I'll see you when it's race time." She told the dog simply before flying off.

----

I... apologize if your dragonsona is mischaracterized, I tried.

A/N: This one sucked but I ran out of ideas for this and I have other stories I wanna finish ^^;

[thefallennightmare]

A new book came out in Germany called 'Empire of Sins and Souls'. I am planning on reading (listening to) it. I came across this book because the author made a tiktok where she said that the male characters are based on Noah Sebastian and Andy Biersack. Just wanted to let you know.

Also, because I speak German: 'Bier' is the German word for Beer 🍺 and 'Sack' is the German word for bag 🎒 (or pouch, testicles/balls). Interesting last name 👀

IM YELLING ABOUT EVERYTHING.

I need to look into this book ASAP.

Also Biersack meaning beer balls has me HOOTING AND HOLLERING.

[haveatthee83]

Under My Skin (Monkey D. Luffy/Reader) 7/7

Inspo: Under My Skin by Jukebox the Ghost

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: Fluff, weddings, discussion of death and dead relatives, brief descriptions of post-battle, kids.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You heaved on your back, trying desperately to get as much air as you could into your lungs, the battle finally settling around you. You forced your head to look to your right, a bright smile spreading across your face, there was Luffy, he had it. After all this waiting, you had found the poneglyphs, you had found the location they led to and there you had all found a great many traps, monsters, and even a few undead protectors all getting tougher and tougher as you got to the center of the island.

Your captain stood atop a hill of gold, the sun setting behind him as he held up this shining, metal orb, wrapped in a band of crystal, it was the god damned One Piece. You beamed and desperately tried dragging yourself to your feet, struggling to hold yourself up, but your eyes never left Luffy in Gear 5, flashes of Nika, Joy Boy, and Gol D. Roger all running through your mind, ripping pure laughter from your throat.

Luffy’s eyes sparkled as he held up this amazing treasure in his hands, and he realized, “I did it. I got it, I FUCKIN GOT IT!” he cheered, literally leaping for joy, his red eyes landing right on your beat up, but smiling body. Luffy cheered and sprinted down the large pile of gold, aiming right for you.

You grunted as he barreled into you, both of you cackling as he landed, him hovering over you, his hands on either side of your head, “I got it.” He whispered, trying to suppress his beaming smile a little bit.

“You’re the King of the fucking Pirates.” You whispered back, not even trying to stop your ear-splitting grin. Luffy slammed his lips against yours, his Gear 5 melting away.

“Marry me,” Luffy mumbled against your lips, swallowing your piercing gasp, “C’mon, marry me, be my queen.” He giggled into your mouth.

You had to actively push Luffy back, heaving laughter as you nodded, “Okay, pretty boy. I’ll marry you!” you exclaimed, shoulders shaking as you let him dive back into your lips.

Luffy pulled back and hoisted you up into his arms, letting you hold the treasured orb, “I AM MONKEY D. LUFFY!” he hollered to the air, “I’M THE KING OF THE PIRATES, AND I’M GETTING MARRIED!” he yelled out, receiving hoots and hollers from the Straw-Hats, all recovering from the fight and jogging up to you two as fast as they could.

The wedding came three months later, held on an ornately decorated Thousand Sunny. You had Robin, Nami, and Usopp-he insisted-in your wedding party, all dresses in beautiful gowns of different colors, Robin in a deep plum, Nami in an emerald green, and Usopp in a pale yellow. Luffy had Sanji, Trafalgar Law, and Eustass Kidd at his side, all three crews in attendance. Other notable guests were the “resurrected” Sabo, Shanks and the Red-Haired Pirates, Buggy and his crew, Mihawk, and Sir Crocodile, all of whom were scattered across their ships, watching the ceremony, the captains and warlords all sat in the few chairs left open on the deck of the Thousand Sunny. Two seats were left empty, right in the front row, next to each other. They each sported little framed photos, one of Ace, one of your brother, both of them beaming in glass frames, green and orange respectively.

Zoro pulled at his collar, not used to the constricting feeling, but he stopped when he noticed Mihawk glaring at the poor etiquette, straightening his back. Zoro, as first mate, was to officiate.

You sighed, trying to shake out some nerves as you heard Brook start playing your music. You and Luffy were far from a traditional couple, so your wedding was nothing different. Luffy wore only a blazer, opting out of a shirt, the music playing was a wedding march from your island, a rendition of the slow song you and Luffy had danced to on his birthday, and your dress was very you. The bodice hugged your torso, colorful glass beads running across its white, silky surface, and the skirt was shorter at the front, falling just above your knees, the back just brushing your ankles, which were clad in your same old boots, shined and gleaming. You and Luffy both still wore your hats on your heads, you opting out of a veil. Your bouquet was all selected from your island.

You swallowed your nerves, a bright smile breaking across your face as you took the first steps out toward your fiancé.

Luffy beamed, his face going a bit rosy as he saw how pretty you looked all dolled up. He watched you closely as you walked down the aisle, reaching out to hold your hands as you handed off your bouquet. He practically buzzed with excitement, unable to stop himself from leaning down and kissing your painted lips, receiving a few wolf whistles and cheers.

Luffy was quickly chastised by Zoro, “You’re supposed to wait on that, moron!” he growled, pulling Luffy off of you, much to both of your disappointment.

“Then marry us quicker,” Luffy huffed, a few barked laughs coming from the crowd.

Zoro rolled his eyes and started, “Thank you, everyone for coming today.” He droned, reading out a book on a little podium in front of him, “We are gathered here to witness the marriage of one King of the Pirates, Monkey D. Luffy, and-” Zoro called out your full name, “Now, I feel like I should mention, if any of you fuckers object, I’m just gonna throw you overboard.” He called, glaring with his one eye, “So, I’m not even gonna fuckin ask.” You and Luffy laughed, joined by scattered chuckles behind you, “So let’s just-uh-do the fucking vows or whatever, Luffy first.”

Luffy chuckled and turned to face you more fully, “Hey,” he started, squeezing your hand.

“Hey.” You whispered back, face feeling sore from your immovable smile.

“You are the only person I could ever see myself up here with,” Luffy said, “I mean, it was practically prophesied,” He joked with a quick laugh, “You make me happy every day, and I love you so much. I can’t wait to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of our lives, or to fight for freedom with you, and I can’t wait for every little quiet moment in between.” He confessed, “I promise to be there every day, to wake up every morning and try to make the world a better place for you. I promise to love you and hold you close as long as you’ll let me.”

You gave Luffy a watery smile, mouthing a little, ‘I love you’.

Zoro nodded, satisfied, “And now, glass girl.” He said, and you snorted a laugh at the nickname.

You took a deep breath, shifting your hands to where you were holding Luffy’s hands in your own, “Monkey D. Luffy,” you laughed out, shaking your head in disbelief, “You are the single best man I’ve ever met. You make me laugh, you make me the happiest I’ve ever been, and frankly, you make me a better person every day.” You said, “You’re already an amazing king and I can’t wait to see what else you do. I’m so excited that I get to call you mine, and I’m so glad you want me to be yours.” You bit back a few tears, laughing instead, and Luffy reached up to wipe them away, “Thank you. I-I promise to love you and stand by you every day, to fight every day for a better tomorrow,” you broke out into giggles, “and to see how accurate Portgas was with his stupid guesses,” Luffy snorted, the other Straw-Hats laughing knowingly, “and to love you and hold you close as long as you’ll let me.” You whispered, squeezing his hands in yours.

“Sounds good to me!” Zoro announced, digging the rings out of his pocket, holding the simple bands out for you, “Put em on.” He lightly commanded, nodding down at the jewelry.

You and Luffy laughed and shook your head, grabbing your respective rings, sliding them onto each other’s fingers. The rings had simple engravings on each side, one of polished flames, and the other of the rounded cloudlike shapes of Luffy’s Gear 5 form. Nothing too flashy, no gems or diamonds, but perfect for you two, the metal treated to adapt around your Devil Fruit abilities.

“I pronounce you, married!” Zoro called out awkwardly, smacking the book closed, “Now you can kiss her.” He said to a beaming Luffy.

Said man wasted no time, swooping you into his arms, kissing you deeply, dipping you low as cheers and hollers erupted around them, the sound of celebratory cannon fire making you smile.

The massive group moved to the island you were anchored by, a completely abandoned tropical, summer island, completely letting loose with a loud party full of rum, good food, and music.

You and Luffy found yourselves dancing on the sandy beach, your shoes long gone, surrounded by familiar faces. You had your back to his front, one of your hands reached up into his hair and the other holding his hand that was wrapped around your waist. He held your hip with the other, holding you straddled over one of his knees, both of you grinding to the beat. You laughed and smiled at the silly things he’d whisper in your ear between stolen kisses and little nips at your neck and ear.

Luffy practically purred as you tugged a bit at the hair at the nape of his neck, “Having fun, wifey?” he asked, both of your beaming at the nickname.

“Absolutely, hubby.” You teased, placing a lipstick staining kiss to his jaw. “Always love dancing with you.” You muttered into his skin.

Luffy smirked and grabbed your hands, spinning you out from him before pulling you back in, facing him this time, and he placed your arms around his neck and grabbed at your hips. He placed his forehead against yours, knocking both of your hats around your necks. “You’re my wife,” he muttered, his eyes almost heart shaped as he looked at you.

“You’re my husband,” you purred, the same affection and passion in your gaze.

“Wanna hear something funny?” Luffy asked. You nodded, “My birthday wish came true.”

You smiled, confused, “Yeah? How so?”

“I wished that I could get to make you smile forever, and now, I can.” He said, pulling you all the closer against his body.

Robin and Zoro toasted bottles of rum, “We did it.” She cheered, both taking a long swig.

“We got the fuckers married.” Zoro smirked in agreement, raising the bottle back to his lips. “When are we gonna have to set one of these up for you and the cyborg?” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

Robin glared at the swordsman, “Oh, hush.” She said, before pointedly walking away, straight toward Franky.

Zoro let out a deep belly laugh as she went, slapping the rock he sat on.

“Wanna introduce you to somebody.” Luffy muttered, leading you toward one of the edges of the dancing crowd. You found a slightly older pirate with red hair and a scar over his left eye nursing a bottle of rum and talking to a tall man with gray hair who was smoking a cigarette, both laughing quietly.

“Little Anchor!” Shanks called out, holding his arm out in greeting, hooking it around Beckman’s neck. “Congrats!” he exclaimed.

Luffy laughed and presented you to the man, “Shanks, meet my wife,” he said, telling Shanks your name, “aka The Glass Dragon!” he bragged, looping his arm around your waist, “The unofficial Queen of Pirates. She won’t let me make it official.”

You flushed and whacked Luffy’s chest, “You dork.” You muttered.

“Your dork.” Luffy chided.

Shanks grinned widely, “Lovely to meet you!” he greeted happily, putting his bottle down and standing, putting his hand out for a handshake. You smiled and grabbed his hand, yelping as you were yanked out of Luffy’s arms, rushed into a tight hug with the older pirate captain, “Any friend of Luffy is a friend of mine!” He exclaimed before pulling back, holding you at arm’s length, patting your shoulder, “You know, I never thought I’d see the day this crazy kid fell in love, but here we are, and I couldn’t be happier.”

You chuckled and patted Shanks’s hand with your own, “Thank you Mr. Shanks, sir.” You muttered awkwardly, unsure what to call the emperor.

“Just call me Shanks, sweet cheeks.” He chirped, clapping your shoulder one more time before letting you return to Luffy’s side. Shanks’s eyes softened when he saw Luffy fiddling with the string of his hat at his neck. “Hey, kid.” He called, stepping closer to be in front of Luffy. “Keep it.”

Luffy’s eyes shot wide, “But you said-!”

“Are you done yet?” Shanks chided, letting out a satisfied hum when Luffy shook his head, “Then it has more adventures to see, besides,” Shanks smirked, “What’s a king without his crown?” Shanks’s heart swelled as it fully set in, this hat has seen both Kings, and he had been there to witness them both. And as he saw Luffy wrap back around you, smiling at how happy and in love you were, he couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride.

Six years had passed and you two were content together.

“Get back here, you little shits!” you cackled, chasing three little pairs of feet across the deck of the Thousand Sunny, dodging past a few of your crewmates as you went. When you caught up with them, you swept all three of them up in your arms, setting the oldest on your shoulders and holding the other two on your hips. “River, Ruby, Rocky, you guys need to chill out!” You chastised, walking them over to where your husband was talking with Usopp and Nami about navigation plans and inventory.

You came up beside him, setting your kids down and pecking Luffy on the cheek. “Hey, baby.” You muttered, wrapping your arms around his middle, smiling as he set his arm over your shoulders. “You having a good day?”

Luffy chuckled and shrugged, “Better now that you’re here.” He said.

You smirked, looking up at your husband, “Guess what?” Luffy hummed, encouraging you to go on, both of you ignoring the rest of the world for a moment, “Portgas was wrong.” You sing songed.

Luffy’s brows knit together, and he squinted at you, confused, “What do you mean?”

“Start coming up with baby names, Luffy. We gotta get creative this time.” You teased.

Luffy’s face lit up, “Really?” he threw his head back and cackled before picking you up and twirling you in his arms. “We’re having another kid!” He exclaimed, a few of your crewmates hearing and giving scattered whoop’s, but poor Zoro groaned.

“Another one?” he muttered, dreading the antics of another one of Luffy’s offspring. He turned to Robin who was sat next to him on the lawn deck, “Throw me overboard.” He droned. She just laughed and waved him off, taking a sip of her tea.

“You love it.” She teased, setting the teacup back on its saucer, “You adore those little kids.”

Zoro glowered, “I love my sanity more.”

You and Luffy stood at the helm of the ship, “I love you,” you muttered, drawing him into a soft kiss.

“I love you too.” He mumbled as he pulled away. “How’s Raven if it’s a girl?”

“Not bad,” you nodded, “Reminds me of Robin.” Luffy chuckled, wrapping you in his arms around the shoulders, kissing the top of your head.

[clearancecreedwatersurvival]

Once again I am grateful not to have reread the books before watching the show. I was hooting and hollering and yelling about Lanfear for the fourth episode in a row, having a great time, blissfully not noticing the Siuan character assassination until I hopped into the tag afterwards. I’m just gonna jump on the bandwagon and assume Liandrin was compelling her or there’s something else to the situation until proven otherwise.

[pedrostylez]

Frankie Morales Ramble: Home From the Bar

pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!reader

summary: you and Frankie have been friends forever and now you’re drunk?

rating: 18+ (no minors please)

word count:2.1k

warnings etc: dirty thoughts but nothing else-mostly angst and fluff

A/N: I am not sure if this is technically a drabble or a headcanon or one shot or WHAT but just enjoy. I’m going to call it a ramble for now because I start out rambling and it ends with something I think I could write fully ya know?

Y’all…can’t you just imagine sitting in the back of a pick up truck heading wherever (maybe Benny is driving everyone back from the bar) and you and Frankie are in the bed of the truck cuddling platonically at first…

And you’re feeling light headed and so Frankie tells you to lay down and you rest your head on his thigh (ow ow my heart) and he’s so sweet just scratching the back of your head/nape of your neck while his other arm is hanging out the side of the truck. And your hair is all over the place and Benny takes a curve too quickly and so you’re holding on for dear life to Frankie’s leg to the point you have to wrap your arm around it? And he’s all “it’s okay baby girl I got ya” still just petting your head and shoulders.

And when you are getting dropped off you go to sit up and Frankie holds on to your hand to help you to stand??? And then he jumps down before you after leading you to the edge of the bed and when you say “you can get down yourself” he gets nervous and scratches under his hat a little but holds on to your fingers tighter, saying “I know you can, but put me at ease won’t you?”

And so you accept his other hand after rolling your eyes and he sighs a huge gust of relief because you’re wearing those silly heels that you only started wearing because of your new job and you want to be a professional worker but he’s pretty convinced you’ll switch to sneakers in the office the minute you see an opportunity to. That is what you did at your last job and probably will do it again since he knows you so well.

And he lets you crouch down and begin to stick your leg out to reach the ground but you’re wobbly and let go of his hand to reach for his shoulder while he reaches for your hip because he swears you’re going to twist an ankle.

When you’re finally off the bed of the truck and secure on the ground he wraps his arm around your shoulders and starts leading you to your front door, muttering about how your shoes are going to come off as soon as possible??? And that he will tuck you in and then head back to his place??? And because you’re tipsy you flirt back even though you don’t typically comment like this and say “Why what are you going to do to me? Make me strip?”

And he chokes on his own breath and just glances at you while unlocking the door after reaching into your purse and grabbing your keys from you. At this point the boys in the truck have done their hooting and hollering of goodbyes to you and are waiting on Frankie to help you inside. Benny and Will and Pope all know that Frankie has a crush on you and are tempted to leave him with you to make him uncomfortable but are waiting because Frankie said he has work early the next morning.

And so now its you and him at your front door as he is struggling to unlock your deadbolt and all flustered because of what you said and you sway away from him because it is only just now hitting you how fucking drunk you actually are. And Frankie glances over at you but then does a double take as he is pretty convinced you’re going to fall flat on your ass. He reaches for you and grabs you quickly enough that you don’t fall, but all the boys in the truck saw it and Benny is now worried and yells “She good?”

And Frankie just yells back “Guys I’ll get her inside and walk home, this is going to take a minute.”

And You pout because like…heyyyyy…you know you’re bad but you could probably get yourself up the stairs? 

But just as quickly as you thought about stating that fact you hear the rumble of the truck driving away, and Frankie is still holding on to you asking if you’re still ok or if he needs to try to maneuver your door one handed. So you scoff and lean against the railing and motion for him to continue. 

And then the door is finally open and he's ushering you inside like a cat because you are convinced you can do this yourself and you’ve already forgotten what you said about stripping but Frankie hasn’t and he’s trying really hard to. 

And the way that you immediately head for the stairs and fall forward and have to catch yourself with your hands has Frankie holding in a groan because your ass is in his face and your dress jumped up a bit when you fell forward and he saw those cute little undies that have little stars on them that he hasn’t seen before. And the way he grabs your hips and asks if you’re ok has you both a little dizzy because he just sounds so breathless and you are only just now realizing that you haven’t stood back up straight. 

And Frankie is starting to feel the pressure in his pants, absolutely begging him to lean down and worship you on the stairs. He knows it would be the best night of his life if you let him. 

He’s able to push that thought to the side and helps you stand back straight and helps you the rest of the way upstairs to where you’re arguing that you don’t need to take a shower, you’ll be fine and Frankie is arguing that you won’t forgive him if he doesn’t force you to get in the shower and wash away the day before passing out. 

“Hun, please just get in there won’t you? You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“But Fish, I want to lay down what if I pass out in there.”

“I’ll wait until you’re in bed and I’ll lock the door behind me before I go.”

And so you stomp to the bathroom and turn on the water and start taking off your clothes. If Frankie was going to treat you like a child then you were going to act like one, and that includes stomping around. 

And he’s holding back a laugh because you just look so so so SO cute when you twirl away from him and stomp into the bathroom. But he stops laughing because now you’re literally stripping in front of him, forgetting to close the bathroom door and starting to steam up the place like there is no tomorrow. It’s like you were trying to torture him and you even warned him beforehand! How was he so stupid!

And the fact that the only thing he can say is “Won’t you burn yourself with the water that high?” Make him want Pope to punch him because really??? That is what he thought to say? Not “I love you so much, please let me show you.”??????

You either didn’t hear him or you ignored him and he doesn’t care either way because now he is seeing the underwear with stars on it at full view and he has to turn around to stop himself from walking in there as you take those off too and step into the shower.

The way he is standing with his back to you even after you’ve gotten out of the shower and wrapped in a towel makes you pause because you don’t remember him standing so still before. 

And you ask if he is okay and he has a strained “yeah I’m ok, just waiting for you to put on clothes” that makes you jump into your closet to grab a shirt he had left at your place a few months ago and a new pair of underwear. 

And when you tell him it's all clear and he turns around, he feels like he is putty. Because he wasn’t expecting you to wear HIS shirt with no god damn pants on? “You got to get in bed.” Is all he can say because he doesn’t want you to put pants on or to feel self conscious enough to think you need to. But every other time before this when he has spent the night you’ve worn those matching pajamas that he loves so much??? And while this is a change that he could definitely get used to, he figured you would wear pants of some kind because you didn’t want to make him think anything was going on???

And so he watches you with your sopping wet hair and a pink nose jump into bed, again showing him your underwear and now they have hearts on them for christ sake and he rubs his face as you pull up the blanket but uncover your toes.

So he fixes the end of the comforter, but not before he grabs your ankle to pull you down the bed a little more so you lay flat instead of sitting up, and it makes you squeal and him laugh. (ow my heart again)

And now he’s tucking you in and saying he will leave some Advil on your counter and set the timer for your coffee machine and kissing your forehead goodnight. And he so badly wants to stay and make sure you don’t get sick in the night but he’s not going to push because he does have to work in the morning technically….

And his heart just about leaps out his chest when you pout and ask where he is going? Why would he leave now? He has always stayed on your couch or climbed into bed with you before when you both have gotten drunk in the past?

And he tells you he isn’t drunk and that he wanted to make sure you got to bed safe and you still pout but don’t say anything else and he sighs so deeply, knowing you are at the point of non-sober that you could cry on command. And so he takes off his hat and hands it to you and says he will be right back and you get all giddy while you watch him jog out of the room! Because you know he won’t leave without his hat! And that’s the reassurance you need to let him leave your bedroom!!!

And so he goes downstairs and sets up your coffee machine and then into your guest bathroom and grabs the Advil bottle he is familiar with and runs back upstairs with a bottle of water from your fridge and he pauses outside your door for a second to collect himself. He has to leave at 7:30 am at the latest…he knows you have some of his clothes that would work for his job since he is just sitting at a desk outside checking cars as they come into a building…he can do that can’t he? He could probably get you drive him?

And then he hears you shuffling in the bed and so he steps into the room and sees you rolling over on to your side with his hat firmly in your grip but your eyes starting to close and he hopes that you’re going to ask him to cuddle because god damn it, if he could just have permission to be close to you…

And you notice he is standing there and so you lift the blanket to invite him in and ask him to turn off the lights and so he almost sprints over which makes you laugh. And he pulls his phone out of his pocket and sets his alarm for 7 because he knows you need time in the morning to wake up before moving, and he mumbles about letting Benny know you’re okay. He asks you if its okay that you drive him to work tomorrow, regretting asking so much of you but wanting to please you and stay and cuddle. (So sweet omg)

And by the time he is done setting himself up and laying next to you with his arm under your head you’ve cuddled up into his chest, arm dead over his stomach and your bare leg over his. 

And you’ve done this so many times before but somehow it is just like the first time, where he is nervous you’ll know that he is in love with you and just thankful you’ll even be this close to him. 

And so he grabs his hat from your relaxed fingers and sets it next to his phone and lays back, and hopes that in the morning you aren’t too embarrassed. 

Should this be part of a series?? I love Frankie so much, I feel like I could go on and on about him.

[wrestlersownmyheart]

MJF Drabble #15

“Jay, let go of me!”

He yanked you to him and got right in your face, dragging you into your office, and closing the door. “When I am good and ready, love. When I’m good and ready.” He grinned at you. “I saw Max down the hall. Watching us. And he should be here in 3…2…1…”

There was a knock at the door.

“Y/N,” Max said through the door. “Y/N are you okay in there?”

Jay slapped his hand over your mouth and growled in your ear, “Not a word.”

With that he reached for the collar of your blouse and ripped it open all the way down exposing the brazier beneath it.

“Have fun explaining that to him,” Jay chuckled quietly, and turned around sauntering out the door of your office.

“Hey mate!” He said cheerfully to Max as he left the room. You stood in the corner of the room, frantically pulling your clothes back together. Max entered then and his brown gaze instantly fell on you. 

He said nothing for a moment, and then turned and left the room. “Max, nothing happened!” You called to his retreating figure. You couldn't leave the room till you had some decent clothes on. Which, thankfully, you had a spare blouse in your closet. You quickly pulled it on as you heard a commotion down the hall.

You recognized Max’s and Jay’s voices yelling obscenities a few yards away. Not to mention a few other males were hooting and hollering.

“Oh, God…” 

Quickly you buttoned the blouse and hurried out of your office. Your expertise was about to be needed.

And pronto.

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[ladylooch]

Kev & baby Luca with matching pool shorts

“Babe!” Kevin yells into the house. He has Luca with him. Our son is babbling in his car seat, sucking on his hand. 

“Yeah?” I ask, poking my head out of the powder room. I’m finishing cleaning, then we are having a family pool day. The heat in the Midwest has reached ridiculous heights. Don’t even get us started on the humidity. The only way to stop me from going crazy is to be in our new, in-ground pool.

“Look at what I got!” 

“Hold on.” Kevin sighs with a huff. I’m obviously ruining his buzz of excitement. I wash my hands quickly, then come out patting them on my shorts to dry faster. He is holding a black bag in his hands, one hand disappearing into it. “Ready.” I gesture with a smile.

“Your boys… are gonna look so good in our new pool.” I bite my lip. Kevin whips out two pairs of swim trunks. Luca sees them and immediately squeals in excitement. 

“Rubber duckies!!!!!” I start laughing, coming closer to look at them.“He saw them at Target and was so excited. So we gonna match.” I grab Luca’s holding them up to admire.

“This is so cute, babe.” I murmur, then lean up for a kiss. “You’re so sweet.”

“Yeah. Thought you could wear your yellow bikini.” 

“Oh so we all match?”

“Yeah… and cause I like the way it kinda doesn’t fit quite right here.” He cups a boob. “Lil’ family time and a show, no?”

“You’re so desperate for a feel these days.” I joke. “I’m ready to go if you are.” 

“Yeah, I’ll get Luca ready.” Kevin takes him out of his car seat, then hoots and hollers all the way upstairs to his room. After hockey, swimming is Kevin’s favorite activity. I can never get him out of the pool when we are on vacation. I am hoping with having one at home it gives us more time to do other things now.

I meet the boys at the pool with a white cover up over my yellow bikini. Kevin frowns, gesturing to the back yard. 

“Take it off. It’s just us.” He knows I’m still a little self conscious about what pregnancy left on my body. I toss the cover up onto the chair and he whistles. “You’re so hot.” He groans. A blush dusts my cheeks as he cat calls me the entire walk to the stairs. “Making my rubber duckies stretch in here, baby.” I hide my face with my hand briefly, smiling behind it. “Squeak squeak!”

“Oh my god.” I giggle. He wades over to me with Luca. Along with the twining shorts, our son is wearing his blue sun shirt, bucket hat, and his life jacket. 

“Seriously. Wanna get you saddled up here.”

“Ah!” Luca yells, stopping my response. Then a high pitched squeal when Kevin brings his dripping fingers over to hit his bucket hat. 

“Are you having the best day? Went to work with daddy, got to go shopping, and now in the pool! You are going to take such a long nap.” I murmur, adjusting his bucket hat lid to flip up so he can see better. “Give mama and daddy plenty of time in here alone.” My gaze drags up Kevin’s chest, beyond his thick throat and plumped lips to his eyes. I can see his craving there. I suck my cheeks in, wading closer. He pulls me flush to him. He was not kidding about stretching rubber duckies.

Kevin and I work with Luca, helping him float on his back. At first he resists, then he likes the gentle rocking of the water. Kevin brought a few of Luca's water toys out too. Luca holds a purple octopus in his hand, squeezing it and watching as the pool water shoots out onto Kevin’s chest. He giggles, doing it again and again and again until he is beside himself, choking from laughter. 

“Our silly boy.” Kevin murmurs, bringing him back up from floating to rest against his chest. Luca settles in, long blinks starting. A yawn stretches his little mouth, then he rubs at his eyes with his fist. “Sleepy boy too.”

We leave the pool, going to the side where our chaise loungers are and a big umbrella to shield the patio with shade. Kevin gets Luca out of his wet clothes, then changes his diaper. He puts his swim stuff out in the sun to dry as I wrap myself up in a towel. Kevin replaces Luca on his chest, then drapes a towel over the two of them. Luca is out instantly as Kevin rubs his back gently. He looks so adorable with his smooched cheek and lopsided mouth.

Kevin reaches for my hand. I lace our fingers together, then kiss along his knuckles, thanking the universe for the sweetest boys being mine.